


The great day of his wrath has come, and who is able to stand?

by orphan_account



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: M/M, Tfw you only interact with the most annoying gay people ever, rip Alana
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-28
Updated: 2020-09-28
Packaged: 2021-03-07 18:00:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,657
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26701819
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: "She smiles, a violent smile, feral, almost. It's a smile that would pair well with blood on her teeth. It suits her well, he thinks, better than care or concern ever did. Alana is not a peaceful woman, has not lived in peace since that night when she chose to be brave. That quiet tranquility she wore when they first met, the illusion of a calm, well-mannered woman, the balancing light to Hannibal's darkness, was nothing more that a face she could take on and off at will. Hannibal isn't the only one who wears a person-suit."
Relationships: Alana Bloom & Will Graham, Will Graham/Hannibal Lecter
Kudos: 13





	The great day of his wrath has come, and who is able to stand?

**Author's Note:**

> Basically: will and alana have a little gay chat between the number of the beast is 666 and twotl

The Verger mansion is largely unchanged since Will was last unfortunate enough to witness it: a sprawling, opulent fortress of white stone, surrounded by hedges and forests that bathe the place in shadow. The overcast sky shines off the walls in swaths of grey light, delicate glass windows lining the walls. It feels like a ghost town, like something died with Mason Verger and it's never coming back. It feels empty. Haunted.

Yet the trepidation he felt when he last set foot in the mansion is gone, replaced with some new emotion. Something like…. anticipation _. That sounds right _ . It still feels wrong, to enter this place of his own volition. Mason Verger, dead he may be, saw to that. He doesn't know how Alana does it, lives here with Mason's shade around every corner. He supposes learning to live with your ghosts is a talent he never developed. They never let him rest.

Alana is waiting for him as he climbs the stone steps, austere in her dark pantsuit and darker lipstick. They nod to each other, curtly, any hint of their affection buried deep. She feels like a stranger to him. It hurts, to think of their faded friendship, the relationship they once had, but it's a dull kind of pain, one he's experienced ten times over through the years since he met Hannibal. 

He lets Alana lead him through the massive hallways, ignoring the dull heartache in his chest. The mansion is immense, cavernous, red furnishings and low lights. Like walking into the belly of a beast.

Alana doesn't speak as she stops at a doorway of red wood and shoves the heavy doors open with all her might, opening them to a room that Will remembers all too well. It's empty, stripped of furniture besides the cloudy glass tank in the center of the floor. It smells of decay, a thick layer of dust coating the walls. The only piece of furniture apart from that tank is a wooden stool Alana seems to have brought in just for the occasion, a bottle of wine and two glasses stop it.

Yet it still looks the same in his mind's eye. Mason was long dead by the time he arrived, after Hannibal's arrest, but he got a good look at what remained of his decaying corpse, bones picked clean by those eels of his. It sends a message, of sorts, like she's saying  _ See? See what happened the last time when you let Hannibal get too close, get in your head?  _

Will wants to tell her the warning is in vain, that he won't,  _ can't _ kill Hannibal now, that Hannibal is an immovable object altering the very chemicals in his brain. He won't leave, and Will doesn't want him to. But it's better if she thinks she has a chance. If a whisper gets back to Jack, the whole thing falls through. And he loses Hannibal forever. The thought is unbearable.

The door shuts with a bang behind him, and Will focuses on Alana's face, poised and cold like a statue of some Greek god, carved out of marble. If he and Hannibal are Achilles and Patroclus, what does that make her? Does she have a role to play in this myth? 

Will would like to think so. Even if they are on opposing sides, the Troy to their Greece, he still does not want her dead. But at this point, he doesn't even think divine intervention could bring them down. 

Alana draws a metal object from her coat, shining darkly between her nimble fingers. For a split second, Will readies himself to charge her, but she just picks up the bottle of wine and pops it open with the corkscrew, not a knife. He relaxes slightly.  _ I've been dancing on the edge of a blade for so long I can't tell friend from foe.  _

She pours both of them a glass, and Will accepts his hesitantly. She takes a long drink before finally speaking. 

"Jack said you're going to set him free." She says, a ghost of a whisper, the fear in her voice unnoticable but to those who've known her for years. Every word is a performance, one she has perfected. He cannot remember the last time he saw her mask slip. 

Her cane clicks against the floor. The sound of it, the rhythmic _tap tap tap_ , would have made him feel guilty he cared about anyone besides Hannibal. Will remembers what she'd said to him after waking from her coma, what Hannibal had promised her before Abigail shoved her from that window. _Borrowed time. Hannibal promised her_ _borrowed time, and that scares her._ Somehow that fear seemed insignificant compared to the idea of having Hannibal back, without a glass cage to separate them. He tries to remember a time where it was not this way, where Hannibal did not occupy all his waking thoughts and many of his sleeping ones as well. He can't. 

He thinks, vaguely, that indifference is not what you're supposed to feel when your friend fears for their life and the lives of their wife and child, but he cannot bring himself to worry.  _ You've brought out the monster in me, Dr. Lecter, _ he thinks, almost laughing,  _ and I don't think I care. _ It was always lurking under the surface, really. Hannibal just brought it to life. Will is greatful. He knows how difficult it is to live beneath a mask. 

"We set him free, and we reel in the Dragon. Hannibal's our bait, the best chance we've got," he tells her, the lie slipping out easy as pie. He swirls the wine around in his glass, maintaining eye contact.

"And  _ if _ this works, how do you ensure Hannibal keeps his word? Are you just going to believe him, let him lead you like a lamb to slaughter?" She says, imploring, like she thinks it'll make him change his mind. "Once he's free he'll never go back, you have to know that." 

Will almost laughs. _ I know him better than anyone, Alana. Believe me, I know.  _

The flicker of fear is there again, a glint in her sharp eyes, but he keeps going. "We use him to kill Dolarhyde, then we kill him." The words are heavy on his tongue. They feel terminal, final, like admitting it is dooming him, or her, or all of them. They're so connected he can't tell which is which, a veritable garden of twisted vines and twisted lives. Their faces blend together and the one thing he knows for sure is that killing Hannibal would kill Will. They're one and the same, a package deal, and Alana knows that, and Will thinks she doesn't care.  _ Good _ .  _ That'll make this easier _ . It's simpler if they have no qualms, if it comes to that. Cleaner. 

She smiles, a violent smile, feral, almost. It's a smile that would pair well with blood on her teeth. It suits her well, he thinks, better than care or concern ever did. Alana is not a peaceful woman, has not lived in peace since that night when she chose to be brave. That quiet tranquility she wore when they first met, the illusion of a calm, well-mannered woman, the balancing light to Hannibal's darkness, was nothing more that a face she could take on and off at will.  _ Hannibal isn't the only one who wears a person-suit. _

Alana is just like the rest of them, and she is no longer hiding it. For a moment the red sliver of her lipstick becomes the red of the blood they've both spilled. Each other's, Mason Verger's, Hannibal's. _ Especially Hannibal's.  _

"We use him as bait, and then we kill him. Then  _ I _ kill him." He repeats, sipping his wine, and the more he says it the more he knows it can never be true. Hannibal knows him too well to be lured into a trap like this, and more than that, Will knows he'll never be able to carry out the act. Not anymore. Maybe years ago, in Abigail's kitchen, Abigail's blood between them on the floor, he could've. But that Will Graham is dead, just as the Alana Bloom who refused to let him go is dead. Have the years really cost them so much? Have they lost themselves?  _ Or have we found ourselves?  _

Either way, he thinks, they have Hannibal to thank for it. 

Will remembers the gentle touch of a hand curled around his neck, a tender whisper in his ear at odds with the phantom pain of a knife gliding across his stomach, spilling his entrails onto the floor. It has been so long since he's felt Hannibal's touch he doesn't think he cares which one comes next. Are the two really that different? Kissing, and killing? Adoration and obsession are two sides of the same coin. With Hannibal, they have always felt one and the same, and Will wouldn't have it any other way. 

Alana's eyes bore holes into him, accusing, of what he isn't sure. He hasn't freed Hannibal, not yet, and it's not like Alana is  _ innocent _ . His only crime is loving recklessly, and she can't fault him for that. Would she have made different choices if she were him? If it had been Margot in Hannibal's place, would Alana have chosen Jack, and the law? An empty bed rather than an empty cell? Given into duty, given up love? 

Somehow, Will doesn't think so. 

"I hope you know what you're doing, Will. And I hope you can do what needs to be done." She says, and he knows what she's really asking: when it comes down to it, can you kill Hannibal? _No_ , he wants to say, to warn her, _I_ _can't_. 

Instead, he meets her gaze. He raises his glass in a mock salute, and he does not flinch as the words slide off his tongue. 

"I do, Alana, and I can. I promise." 

  
  
  
  
  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> Title is from Revelation 6:12-17 which (you guessed it) talks about the wrath of the lamb. Hope you enjoyed! Come visit me on tumblr (@melcersei) or twitter (@jonsatins) where I commit gay crimes


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